A Day in the Life of Saccho Kobayakawa
by My Misguided Fairytale
Summary: The merits of fixing things versus creating them.


A Day in the Life of Saccho Kobayakawa

Genres: Friendship, General

Summary: The merits of fixing things versus creating them.

A/N: This story takes place an indeterminate amount of time pre-canon, although the story is meant to connect to the others I've written about the Hunter Association and the members of the Zodiac Twelve. As there is hardly anything in canon about this fascinating character, I wanted to flesh them out and give my take on how they got to be where they are and what drove them to become a Hunter. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 _A Day in the Life of Saccho Kobayakawa_

* * *

The sound of the wind rushing through the reeds wakes him like it does every morning. He rolls out of bed, dropping to the floor and pressing the side of his head against the wooden slats of the floor. Sometimes he does push-ups, like in that one exercise pamphlet he'd seen a year ago, featuring men and women in brightly-colored athletic suits—and how bright must they be in person, if the pamphlet was that faded?—but today he merely sits and lets the wind breathe in and out with him before leaning even closer to look through the space between two slats. It had rained heavily the night before, and the ground is still shiny and pitted.

Then he is up and dressed and running, grabbing a roll from the kitchen and tearing down the stairs to the ground outside, dodging puddles and pushing through the tall grasses that grow in a neat row right past the few houses on the edges of their modest village.

He hopes he's the first one to arrive today, at the big tree just past the grasses. The first one gets their pick of the breakfast.

"Saccho!" It's Bolle, waving to him with one outstretched arm. In his other, he clutches an apple. "I win today!"

Saccho produces the roll, and Bolle takes a few moments to decide between the two before drawing back and shoving the apple in his mouth.

"But you love these?" He wants to hold his objection, having already devoured the sweet roll ten times over in his mind, but lifts it and tears a section out with his teeth when Bolle shakes his head, his own mouth full and chewing.

"You like them more. But watch out! I'll take it next time!"

They stand there, leaning against the tree-bark and eating. The sugary rolls are better than the plain kind, and as rare as they are delicious, and Saccho thinks of how his parents must have baked and enjoyed all but one of the first batch before heading into the fields to work, to harvest the oddly dark-colored grains they've grown for generations. It's a good day—the rain is good, and the grasses are taller than ever. For the first time Saccho thinks he might outgrow them by the end of the summer.

"I've been thinking," Saccho says, lingering over the last few bites to make them last. "About that machine. The thresher."

"You think it can be fixed."

"Yeah." He chews, slowly, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You think _you_ can fix it."

"Yeah," he repeats.

"You want to try? You think they will let you?" Bolle straightens his back, standing taller than Saccho, and drops the apple core to the ground. "You broke the cart last month. The axles still don't turn evenly."

"An improvement, some would say. Now it keeps up with old man Maka's uneven gait."

Bolle sighs and begins to grind the apple core beneath his foot. "He hates when you call him that."

"Then he should not have gotten so old."

"Saccho! No one can help that, but you can sure help your big mouth." He presses stronger with the heel of his shoe, until the edge of the core is level with the dirt.

"If they let me try again, I'm sure I could fix it this time."

"Study it, instead of just rushing in with your tools. Identify the problem, _then_ work to fix it."

"If they'll let me," Saccho repeats, and he pouts, just a little, allows himself that tiny concession to self-indulgence.

"Carry the cart. Take a little responsibility, and they will. Because they know, like I do, that you can fix it. You just got a little off track."

"Yeah," he says. "I'll try that."

* * *

He starts his work day at the Hunter Association as he always does, by greeting the front desk staff. There's a new girl, just finishing up her first week, and Saccho greets her first, by name. By now, he's gotten the pronunciation right, and when her superior hands him a list of the day's maintenance tasks, he's a little shocked at first by how long it is.

"The storm last night knocked out power for awhile, so we have to make sure everything's working properly, re-boot whatever is needed," she says, and he decides to start on those tasks first. The rest are fairly mundane, from burned-out lightbulbs in the high-ceilinged atrium to copying keys to fixing a broken shelf in one of the employee break rooms.

He turns, shifting on his feet to glance out the large, plate-glass windows on the building's front wall, where the storm has dwindled ever-so-slightly to rain and blustering wind and deep, ugly-looking clouds. "Is it supposed to get worse, do you know?"

"I didn't think so," the girl answers. "I can let you know if it does."

He hums his assent and departs for the maintenance closet on the lowest level, near where the boiler and some of the main electronic systems—including the building's security and some of the deep storage—are located. It's more his domain than anyone else's, organized to his specifications, and he finds the tallest ladder and the spare lightbulbs with ease. He makes a note to order more.

He gets several odd looks from some of the business executives here for meetings and a few of Beans's uniformed assistants as he sets up his ladder in the middle of the atrium. Even though it's busy, with most people arriving during this late morning hour, it's better to tackle this problem first—even with the dark clouds, better to use what little natural light is available now to light the atrium in his absence than commit the task later and leave the room in darkness.

It occurs to him, as he muses, that the odd looks probably have more to do with the fact that he's balancing the ladder on one leg to be able to reach one of the farther lights.

* * *

They stand in the barn that stores their equipment, around a machine only three years old, and Saccho's arms are a little longer to reach further past the open casing to fix a bent piece of metal. The piece straightened, he replaces the cover and sets the screws back into place.

"It broke because of the stress on this joint. The design is inferior. It will only break again." It is easy to imagine, even through the casing—Bolle can see all the parts, see how they connect, and the broken joint stands out in red. He blinks, and the illusion is gone, and he looks to Saccho and knows he can see it too.

"So?" Saccho frowns, and remembers how the thresher had sparkled, the day it was delivered. "Then I'll just fix it again."

"Better to have a well-designed system than a well-intentioned handyman."

Saccho stops, his palm on the wrench, before he continues tightening the screw with even more gusto. "And better still to have both."

"Lucky us, then," Bolle says.

"Unlucky _them_." He wipes his forehead with the back of one hand before gesturing it out towards the surrounding woods.

"Can't fix everything."

"Better than trying to fix every _one_." Saccho looks at Bolle, notes the similarities. Both of them alike enough that they could be brothers if not for the lack of shared blood. Both born the same summer, both only children, both named after long-deceased ancestors. Then he notes the differences.

"And better still to work on yourself first."

He stills once more, and finally stands, his work on the thresher complete. "You are so wise, Bolle. It's what keeps me humble."

Bolle makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Saccho amends. "Grounded, then."

He makes another, even more pronounced scoff. "I don't believe that. You would fly if given half a chance. All the way to the stars. And you wouldn't once look back down."

"I have no ambitions of being a pilot."

"No," Bolle says. The image, in his head, of Saccho dressed like the pilots in the advertisements, with the puffy jackets and oversize glasses and long, trailing scarves, provides only a moment's temporary amusement. "You only want everything else."

"I'll always come back. Eventually." It is an easy thing to assure his friend. Saccho's promises flow like water, but he would still never make one he couldn't keep.

"I'm not worried about that. Or about you."

The certainty in Bolle's voice gives Saccho pause. "Then what?"

"How everyone else will treat you. How they'll take advantage of your kindness, your good nature."

Saccho shrugs. "I'd let them."

"But not for long." Bolle looks down, shaking his head, and his hair shines like the precious wheat that grows around them. "You would do anything for a stranger. A normal man would feel guilty about that, after enough time. No one can spend too long in your presence before they start to see things your way. Not even the devil."

A smile, from Saccho. "Do you think I will encounter him on my travels?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And what shall I say, when that happens?"

Bolle taps his chin, taking a moment to think. "He takes many forms. Instead, perhaps you should look closely at whoever makes his introduction."

"And that is why I say you are wise!"

Bolle's smile is a more subdued, rare thing, even in the face of Saccho's constant praise. "Wise enough to know not to chase my own unhappiness. To invite unnecessary difficulty and hardship into my life."

Saccho makes a study of the wrench in his hand. "Is that why you do not want to leave this place?"

"It's not that. I don't want to leave because my world is here. I want to make _this_ world a better place. I want to stay with these people, and continue living this life. I am satisfied with that much, and what more that I want is still attainable to me here. I seek nothing else."

"Not like me."

"Not like you, no."

A silence stretches between them, like the miles at sea on the maps in Cartage town he'd pored over on their few, infrequent trips. The breeze picks up, and with it carries the faint smell of wildflowers from some meadow beyond their sight.

Bolle watches as Saccho turns to the thresher, and examines his work with pride. "What more do we have to fix?"

Bolle's face falls. In an attempt to hide it he turns to the rest of their meager tool collection, and replaces the wrench when Saccho hands it over. He knows what Saccho will do when there is nothing more to fix.

"Well," he says, "that's one less thing."

* * *

It's two-o'clock, time for Brigitta's session. There is a room in the Association headquarters building Saccho reserves for just this purpose, for any Zodiacs or Hunters or Association employees who wish to schedule a meeting with him, to discuss anything from emotional to interpersonal problems.

"Right on time," Saccho says. "I was worried, after you rescheduled last week, that something was wrong."

"Not at all. It was my boyfriend's birthday, and he got the day off, so I took him to lunch to celebrate."

Most of the rooms in the Association headquarters have the same weirdly minimalist, flexible design—everything is designed to be moved, for purpose rather than comfort, and although the materials are quality the emphasis is still, always, on productivity. He takes a room on a lower floor that was originally intended as an office, but sits unnoccupied for its undesirable location. It's used for a few of the smaller committee meetings and for phone conferencing—and for any of Saccho's counseling sessions.

"I'm glad to see you're adjusting well, after the move. Has everyone else been treating you well?"

She hesitates, and smooths her skirt, and Saccho reminds himself to relax, to let her answer at her own pace and in her own way.

"I only work the front desk in the mornings. In the afternoon I do secretarial work for the administrative services committee. The chair is...very intimidating."

Saccho has to bite the inside of his cheek at first, before remembering that he'd thought Botobai Gigante such as well when they'd first met, upon Saccho's appointment to the Zodiac Twelve.

"You do important work, as I understand it. That committee is responsible for liaising with governments around the world, contracting work for Hunters and, especially, dealing with military organizations. Of course Botobai would take such things very seriously. That is all, unless there's something I'm missing?"

She tugs on a lock of brown hair, another nervous tic. "I thought he did not think I was good enough in this job. That he preferred my predecessor."

It's a point of aggravation for Saccho that the Association tends to employ people in the lower ranks—janitors, telephone operators, etc—on a limited basis, while he cannot ever remember a case of one of their business executives, like those that work with Teradain Neutral, leaving. "Do you want me to speak to him? It's only been a couple weeks. I'm sure things will smooth over with more time."

She leans forward. "That's not necessary. I will handle it. And I find that my gardening is a good way to reduce stress."

"I'm glad you have a hobby." He makes a mental note, to be sure to introduce her to Cluck the next time the Rooster is in town. "Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"

"No. I should get back—my break isn't that long, and I've still got to grab something to eat."

"How thoughtless of me," he says. "Next time, I'll make tea for us. And we can always change the time, if you like. And when you have no more need of these sessions, I'd still like for us to chat, from time to time. As friends."

And after she leaves, it is Saccho's custom to take a few minutes for himself, after each counseling session—regardless of if it is a client within the Association or beyond—to make sure he is calm, and that his own emotions are stable and in control. Some of his sessions can strain him as much as they seem to benefit his guests—and he remembers a few with some of the more volatile Zodiacs that had involved quite a bit of yelling, and one with a Hunter named Dwun who had unloaded nearly an entire decade's worth of dispassionately-delivered predicaments that would have sent a lesser man into tears. Saccho had recommended a series of books on stress management, goal setting, and enforcing interpersonal and professional boundaries, and had never seen the Hunter again.

After another moment of rest, Saccho returns to his list of remaining repairs and tasks. It's a mark of pride to him that even after all this time, and all this work, each task is new. Nothing he has built here has ever broken, so far.

* * *

They have to travel to the next town over for a telephone, and shops that sell more than farming equipment or convenience goods. It's Bolle's father who drives them, in an open-sided vehicle whose tank he fills with gasoline from a container he keeps locked up in a shed far from his lofted house. It makes Saccho laugh, that the vehicle is tucked underneath the pinions much like Saccho's family keeps their donkeys.

It takes them two hours to travel to the town—it would be faster to walk, Saccho's done it once before, as the winding road is hardly direct if an easier route than the ascending hillside in any season other than summer. As he drives, Saccho studies Bolle's father. How his shoulders relax as he drives, falling into a rhythm that escapes the others as they get closer to town, as they start seeing more, and newer, cars on the road. As the road itself improves, and he can see signs, and railings on the sharp curves, and right before they enter the town, paint on the road to delineate the lanes and mark any intersections.

They tag behind him, from the banks to a telephone and bulky computer in an otherwise empty internet cafe to ham sandwiches bought from a vendor whose shop opens up directly onto the street. Several times—once in the bank, and once on the telephone—he'd spoken a language Saccho doesn't know, the one he was born with, from his life before he'd married Bolle's mother and moved into the rural mountains to live and farm with her. The man he'd spoken to at the bank has hair like his, golden and shaggy. Saccho wants to ask him about it, as they eat their sandwiches in silence, how it was that this quiet, spectacled man, having known such a life, could be content with what he found here. He could have left, with Bolle. No one really leaves this place, not in all the time he's been alive—but no one's stayed, either, not like Bolle's father, who brought with him books and maps and helped Saccho learn arithmetic and showed him photos of animals from far-off countries and cities with buildings taller than mountains.

And finally, at Bolle's request, they find themselves in a shop on a neglected corner that sells mostly thrifted merchandise. While Bolle looks at the oversized jackets and dated, oddly colored fixtures, Saccho turns to the books. They're arranged in cardboard boxes on-top of folding tables in the middle of the shop, the selection ever-changing, and Saccho reaches in and pulls out a series of slim books before rifling through them and putting them back. Not a comic book—he doesn't like those, with their magic and creatures and fantasy. He prefers his heroes to build things with their bare hands. There are other pamplets, like the exercise ones he likes, with their faded fluorescent jumpsuits and large, puffed-up hairstyles, and an advertisement for something with a logo of interlocking x's in red and white and black.

"Is there anything I can get you?" It's Bolle's father, with a radio tucked under one arm, the dials glazed in a bright, white-based blue.

Saccho glances back down at the pamplet. _Take the Hunter's Exam!_ He flips it over; there's a section to send away in the mail for more information, and a few catchy taglines. _With your license, gain prestige and live in splendor! Recognized by all governments of the world!_ And below that, the date that the advertisement was printed. It's over a decade and a half old, almost as old as he is. But there is still an address listed, and the section to tear away and mail is still intact.

"This," he says, waving the poster. A sticker on the front lists the price at twenty-five cents. In the corner, Bolle tries on different sunglasses in front of a mirror shaped like a sunburst. "I want to keep looking?"

"Take all the time you need."

He finds a bag, with Bolle's father's help, that's sturdy and made of waterproof material, but turns down the offer of a new jacket. Bolle leaves with a pair of round, dark glasses, and enough excitement about the radio to last the entire trip back. At Saccho's insistence, they stop by a mailbox first.

"I thought it might make a good project for you two," his father tells Bolle. "It's in good condition, but the connection doesn't quite match with our generator. I'm sure you can figure out a way to power it."

"Perhaps we can use the car," Saccho suggests, immediately. "There are batteries in the clocks, but they might not be strong enough."

Bolle turns back in his seat to jab a finger in Saccho's direction. "We are _not_ using the car."

It's three weeks later when a drone buzzes over Saccho's house, early in the morning as he prepares for another day of work and study. A letter drops from the sky, with the same oddly cartoonish artstyle of the poster he'd purchased from the shop in town decorating the front of the envelope. He opens it.

 _We're sorry!_ —a cartoon face in an overexaggerated frown— _You've just missed us! The next Hunter's Exam will take place at—_ a figure frozen in a run, next to a city name he's never heard of— _next December! We hope to see you there!_

There's nothing else, no forwarding address or information or even a salutation, on either the envelope or the letter. He glances up at the drone, with hovers in an arc before flying off, heading South.

When they work, fixing pieces of machinery and a few wobbly tables Bolle managed to scrounge up from one of their neighbor's houses, they do so to the tune of pop music and the occasional weather report from eastern Jappon.

* * *

Saccho is typically among the first to arrive and the last to leave during the workday—and if there is a skeleton crew in the building, it's only a telephone operator or part of the cleaning staff. There isn't even a security officer—all security is digital, ever-changing, and top of the line, the best Ickshonpay can develop.

In contrast, his own apartment building is a long walk from the city's urban center, a mid-rise walk-up with crumbling exterior paint and an antiquated system for everything from the entry to package delivery. There's a few boxes stacked in front of his door, untouched, and a letter taped beneath his apartment number asking for assistance with a faulty television connection from an elderly neighbor down the hall.

Inside, his apartment is small, cluttered, and decorated with vintage prints and memorabilia. On the walls are framed photographs that he'd either taken himself or were gifts, like the one with him and his country's prime minister. In one corner rests a flowering star thistle in a planter, another gift.

And beyond it, as he makes his way further into his apartment, is an older picture, of himself and an old friend, Bolle, after the latter had taken over as the leader of their little village and Saccho had become a Hunter and gotten his first star. In the picture, they're both wearing formal robes, smiling broadly, and what always catches Saccho's attention is how young he looks, in one of the last photographs taken before he changed his face for his appointment as a member of the Zodiac Twelve.

Last he'd heard, they were doing just as well over in the countryside as he was here; as Bolle would say, the work never stops.

* * *

His bag is packed. The sun is setting. And Bolle stands in his way.

"I know I don't _have_ to understand." He folds his arms across his chest. "And I don't. Understand it. How you'll manage without money, without connections, without your family. I don't know if you'll be back. Or if you'll even _want_ to."

When Saccho looks past him, it's to the woods beyond Bolle's back. "I understand everything I see. So I want to see even more, and understand that too. And keep moving forward."

"Are you ready?"

"No." Saccho's answer seems to shock him. "And I'll never be ready. But it feels right, to go now. I've fixed everything I can in this place, but I can't fix my mind here. And for what you want to build, you don't need me."

"Will you return?"

"I've left some of my things. So I'll be back." He thinks of the posters he's so fond of, tacked up in his room, and the collection of tools and fragments of cultural importance scattered around, things to come back for. "It will be awhile, I think. I have much to do. Become a Hunter, change the world. Meet the devil. Stay on track."

A pause, while Bolle fights a smile. "You mean, when you have nothing left to fix, you'll be back."

"When I have nothing left to fix, I'll start building."

* * *

 **END.**

* * *

A/N: Nearly everything regarding Saccho's life was fictionalized: all we know about their character is that they have two stars, are a handyman, the 'counselor' of the Hunter Association, and a member of the Intelligence Division of the Dark Continent voyage. While not confirmed in-canon, it's my belief that he is from Jappon (the country of origin of Nobunaga, Hanzo, and Basho) and as we don't know his age, I liked giving an outdated feel to any descriptions of the 'modern' world of his youth.

Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your reviews. ~Jess


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